As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither,Was ae day nibbling on the tether,Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,An’ owre she warsl’d in the ditch:There, groaning, dying, she did lie,When Hughoc he cam doytin by.

“Tell him, if e’er again he keepAs muckle gear as buy a sheep–O, bid him never tie them mair,Wi’ wicked strings o’ hemp or hair!But ca’ them out to park or hill,An’ let them wander at their will:So may his flock increase, an’ growTo scores o’ lambs, an’ packs o’ woo’!

“Tell him, he was a Master kin’,An’ aye was guid to me an’ mine;An’ now my dying charge I gie him,My helpless lambs, I trust them wi’ him.

“An’ may they never learn the gaets,Of ither vile, wanrestfu’ pets–To slink thro’ slaps, an’ reave an’ stealAt stacks o’ pease, or stocks o’ kail!So may they, like their great forbears,For mony a year come thro the shears:So wives will gie them bits o’ bread,An’ bairns greet for them when they’re dead.

“My poor toop-lamb, my son an’ heir,O, bid him breed him up wi’ care!An’ if he live to be a beast,To pit some havins in his breast!